Son's birthday party dodgeball leaves one of us in stitches

Five minutes before we should leave Sunday for our youngest son's 9th-birthday party -- a 16-kid dodgeball extravaganza -- I load the treats and goody bags into the family minivan and turn the key.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

I remember that sound from all the beater cars (Gremlin, LeCar, Pontiac 9000 and others) of my past. In spite of my frequent dire admonishments on this very subject, one of our three sons (or one of their friends) had left on the dome light above his seat, draining the minivan's battery.

Having once driven a car that required a jump every time I started it, I methodically grab the worn jumper cables and pull my Prius up to the minivan.

It is only after I attach the cables to the minivan's battery posts and open the hood of the Prius that I realize I don't know where to attach the jumper cables on a hybrid. I'm surprised to discover the Prius engine compartment is filled only with bottles of colorful liquids, plastic boxes and a shiny chrome waffle iron that says "synergy."

But dodgeball beckons, so we abandon the minivan. My wife, kids, a cousin and goody bags take the Prius, while I catch a ride with my sister-in-law and nephew.

It's a good thing my sister-in-law drives separately as it allows her to make our upcoming trip to the emergency room less of an ordeal.

As parents of three boys, my wife and I have often marveled at our stitches-free life. While two boy cousins at the party have been to the emergency room for stitches six times in their short lives, our boys have yet to have an injury that requires sewing.

Dodgeball is going great. My wife, her sister and I play alongside all the 9-year-olds. We balance out our 12-year-old twins and their giant friend. Despite my competitive nature, I am flagged only once for a head-shot on a third-grader.

Then comes the sickening thud of face on hardwood.

My wife, in full retreat while dodging incoming balls, trips over a kid doing the same thing.

"Tell me again how this happened?" the skeptical emergency room doctor asks me for a second time.

"Dodgeball," I say matter-of-factly, as if it is a very plausible explanation for every out-of-breath, sweaty 50-year-old guy whose wife comes into the emergency room for stitches on a Sunday afternoon.

"I still don't understand how I could fall and land entirely on my chin," says my wife, backing up my dodgeball story and casting doubt at the same time.

She has no black eye, no swollen cheek, no red marks on her arms. No one asks if I've been drinking or will give a blood sample -- which would show that I am hopped up on brownies and those little plastic cups of vanilla ice cream.

Apparently, when I am worried about my wife, I indulge in sweets. Were I the one needing stitches on my chin, I could hide the scar among my other chins.

I snap before-and-after emergency-room photos of the gaping wound and the neatly stitched chin for our son's birthday party memories.

My wife, sore but recovering, gets her stitches out Friday.

Our boys still remain stitchless.

My sister-in-law's car successfully jump-starts our minivan.

Our son's haul of birthday presents completes the arsenal of Nerf-firing weaponry he desires.

I get yet another column from my obliging family.

Life is good.

Or, in the words of our birthday boy: "This was the greatest birthday party ever!"